


Decadence

by flybynight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22507147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/pseuds/flybynight
Summary: Arthur, a rich nobleman, is taken by a mysterious creature who preys upon men.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 103





	Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> pairing: usuk  
> rating: explicit  
> warnings: dubcon, blood drinking, voyeuristic sex  
> notes: PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND WARNINGS. There is quite a lot of dubious consent, not mild, either. Admittedly this was just an excuse to write blatant vampire smut for a dear friendw, with hastily added context at the beginning (I hope it's not TOO obvious...).  
> Again, please do heed the warnings, and if you enjoyed it, do let me know! :)

It had all started with a party, he recalls later, distantly, once his mind is able to comprehend the experience. Hosted by a distant cousin in the city, with ladies and gentlemen of lofty stations, few only loftier than his own, but well spoken, well groomed, with thick purses and power and influence. Arthur was like any other polished gem among them, and flaunted it as he did with every public function required of him as the youngest son of a prominent and well established family, possessing a name and wealth that stretched back over a century. Securely betrothed to a handsome woman of equal refinement whom he’d met only thrice, his career settled and his accounts quite full from no particular input of his own, Arthur was quite set for life, really. 

So even as he met with many that night, listened to the talk and gossip about trades he had no interest in whatsoever, about politics and current climate of the world, all of it he cared little to take part in outside of his own personal bubble where everything was the same. The common man and their concerns were of no consequence to him. Arthur had everything he wished, no qualms about how spoiled he was, how naive he may have been, and felt no shame in it. Everyone who knew him, knew this about him. 

And if they knew him _well_ , they would know even more how much he quietly loathed it all at the same time. There was nothing to be gained in life for him, nothing to desire, nothing to aspire to-- not when everything was done for him. Not when he could schmooze amongst those of the same stature and judge them behind his eyes, searching for something, someone to break up the tedium while knowing what a truly fruitless endeavor it was. 

Until that night. The night he met a young man from the colonies. 

Had his manner been as boorish as his horrid accent, Arthur might not have paid him any mind save but to wonder who had _allowed_ him to enter their space so brazenly. Without much representation too, the man had some trifle connection with the hosts that had kindly introduced them to one another, Arthur did not pay enough attention to digest it all, and he certainly couldn’t remember it now. 

His name was Alfred Jones. Apparently he was travelling in their cherished Mother England for one paltry business reason that again, he had no interest in. In fact he’d caught Arthur’s eye at first merely because he’d stepped into his line of sight quite directly, wine glass between his long fingers and an oddly cryptic smile fixed upon his admittedly, disgustingly handsome and perfect face. He’d seen him chattering with all the young ladies, who tittered behind their fans and blushed sweetly at the attention, and Arthur believed him to be _that_ sort of man, rougeish, flippant, a brute who dined upon the affections of all who should offer it, but particularly the pretty ones. 

Arthur resents men like him. Resents that his own eyes linger upon them, that his thoughts betray him, fool him into believing that his curiosity might be things like attraction, an affliction and a curse that he's always denied having.

The man was tall, tallest among most within the room, a striking figure with a body that bespoke of manual labor, a bloody farmhand from the Americas come to call, Arthur had imagined, who had somehow fallen into swaths of silk and finery to paint himself as something more distinguished, but Arthur couldn’t believe that was possible. He was too young, far too young, he thought. No more than four in twenty, perhaps, though the light behind his eyes gave the illusion he could be older than that. He’d thought that even before he’d known the truth of the matter.

When left alone, instead of the stranger leaving him be after making so brief an acquaintance, he lingered there, swirling the deep red in his glass and not speaking until Arthur eyed him, critically, and the other bothered to speak. 

_“You look like you’re in need of more interesting pursuits, Lord Kirkland_.”

Arthur had felt scandalized at the uncomfortably direct way of being addressed, he hadn’t been prepared for it. He had the distinct impression the other knew more about him before, he must have, somehow, and only much later would the man admit as much, that he had been watching Arthur _too_ from afar without his knowledge, and not simply in the midst of this open ballroom on one singular, unremarkable evening. Where he would have met Arthur or seen him before, he did not know. 

But had Arthur known any of this, he might never have engaged. He might have taken into account his feelings of apprehension to start with, lingering just beneath the surface of intrigue that he only just managed to cover with disdain when the other had continued to speak to him, so casual as to be obscene, managing grace with what seemed so little effort that naturally no one around them seemed as bothered as Arthur was. But no, he had not been kindly or polite to the man. Arthur had never had to be, with anyone. And why should he? He was a _Kirkland_. Should he want to make the acquaintance of someone so obviously beneath him, he would do so of his own accord. 

He made that quite clear at the time, he remembers, because he’d half hidden a smirk behind his gloved hand and disparaged him with no shame, in earshot of several of the other party goers, telling the American that not only was he not interested in speaking with some bleating, backwater colonist in an overly tailored suit, no matter his ( _common_ ) family name or connections, but that he was, in fact, quite happy where he was from his corner in quiet observation and did not wish to be disturbed. 

It was rude. Arthur was _rude_. Always had been. He hadn’t cared. 

Rebuffing Alfred’s attentions had been nothing to him, and yet something had gone awry as the stranger’s now darkened eyes had not changed at least in their deep inspection of his person, roaming over him like clawed, raking hands that had left Arthur flinching, inwardly. The stranger had even smiled at him, as though he had not heard, though the tightness at the corners of his mouth were strained with something he could not parse. Something that looked too much like hunger.

He’d inhaled sharply as, rather than be repelled, the stranger stepped within the circle of his space, amongst dozens of witnesses, half crowded him against the finely papered wall and loomed as he bent to bring his lips near Arthur’s ear. 

_“I will teach you decadence.”_

He had said-- no inkling as to what that could _possibly_ entail, and yet Arthur found the previous thread of intrigue grew longer, more pronounced in that moment, because he could not possibly have understood how his life would come to change from such an interaction. From such a tawdry statement, at that, vexing him. 

But the man moved away so quickly, it was though it had not occurred. He laughed, _laughed_ in a dark, enigmatic way that left him ruffled and uncomfortable in his own skin. He couldn’t think why, save that perhaps it was anger. He was not to be made a fool of. He would not be, by anyone. 

The stranger left him then, but from that point in the evening, Arthur saw him at every turn, just at the corner of his gaze no matter which way he faced, no matter how many other conversations and crowds he thought to escape to, or other corners to quietly stew in his discomfort. He left the gathering that night feeling distinctly _watched_ , though the carriage ride back was uneventful, and Arthur thought to forget about such an unpleasant, terribly boring evening and find respite in his bed for the night. 

Yet he did not sleep. For days afterward, he could not find it, no rest save for pockets of time that were lost to him, even during the day during unprompted dozing at his writing desk. He was asked if he were feeling unwell, and Arthur brushed all concerns away, believing that mere bouts of insomnia were nothing to be overly concerned about. He did not in fact confess as to what occurred during said bouts, because he did not feel there was much to be said without causing further alarm. 

How could he talk of hearing whispering voices? Of shadows upon the walls of his room when there was truly, nothing there at all? Of fruitlessly closing and locking the glasspaned windows, only to wake from mere minutes of troubled slumber and find his curtains billowing in the wind, and his room chilled to the very core? 

He cannot dream any longer, but he finds he does not have to, because the dreaming happens when he thinks he might be awake, his heart pattering dangerously fast as he tries in vain to close his eyes and sees only blue, hears _that_ voice, feels darkness close in around him that feels like warm breath against his ear, against his throat, and strangely, between his legs in the same way that one’s basest urges might normally occur. Urges Arthur’s never indulged fully, not entirely, but now it seemed inevitable to greet the morning in hopelessly tangled sheets and his hand pressed over his wanton shame, undergarments sticky wet with the evidence. 

It happened every night, for more than a week. Two weeks at least, and Arthur feared for his sanity. He began to fear the light of dusk, the shape of the moon. He feared the way his blood ran hot at the mere brush of a memory, his cheeks ruddy at the thought of passions unexpressed. 

And what had seemed mere feverish imaginings had now led to this, in the here and now, awakening as though resurfacing from a dark ocean, standing confused and unaware. Arthur takes in air in slow, shaky swallows as his vision clouds in and out like the flickerings of the candles that fill the room. 

There’s quiet chatter. The nobleman’s head turns despite himself, but instantly another sound, a laugh, the twinkle of glass, draws him to look the other way entirely. Arthur cannot make out the words, only that he is very aware that the low hum of voices speak in various tongues, some English, and others worlds away, but all of them are hushed, almost conspiratorial, and he wonders if it’s worth it to try and parse them when it is so very difficult even to keep his head upright. 

He cannot think. He does not remember walking into this room with it’s swirling colors of muted gold fixtures and crimson upholstery, does not remember the journey from where he had come from. He remembers being in his own room, the sound of his windows breaking open, but nothing after. Then a bed, absolutely not his own, chilled porcelain, throaty whispers against the inside of his stinging thighs, he remembers those things, a little. It seems like a dark void inside his head, consuming any thread of thought he manages to catch onto. 

His lips part at the same time a large warm hand suddenly presses against the small of his back, startling him terribly. The sounds inside the room seem to surge, filtered through what seems like water, and he finds himself latching on to the feeling, a presence that is solid. Familiar. A dark figure moves into focus, blocking out the light. 

“Lord Kirkland. Arthur,” he-- _Alfred_ , Arthur remembers, he remembers that too, snaps his fingers once in front of his face, drawing Arthur’s gaze and attention, “look here. You’re safe.” 

Arthur does look, unaware he has been trembling until the hand at his back pulls him forward, closer to fathomless blue tempered behind glass and the dark curve of Alfred’s smile. 

“Breathe.” 

“Where--” the nobleman croaks, voice cracking, and he turns pink, “where are we? Where have you taken me?” 

Alfred doesn’t answer, instead staring into Arthur’s eyes, his other hand drifts down the side of his face, then along his bruised ( _bruised?_ ) throat. Arthur feels bound to stand there, an itching beneath his skin as the American remains fixedly more interested in ignoring his question. His feet do move, however, when Alfred tugs him forward, and now Arthur is _very_ aware of the fact that they are not alone. He knew that, of course he had, but the hand leaves him, Alfred steps back, and all eyes are upon him. It blankets a fresh wave of anxiety across his shoulders, weighing him down until he thinks he might very well sink to the floor. 

“Why am I here?!” Arthur insists, near hysteria. 

“This is your initiation, into my court,” Alfred finally responds, with a smile that almost looks _loving_ , “and your punishment.” 

Arthur doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t who any of these people are, why they are here, what he is being brought into. He can hardly focus on anyone’s face, and there are some he cannot see and do not look at him at all, a few who seem rather dead to the world as they lay nakedly draped over satin chaises, some lying at the feet of far more lavishly dressed, frighteningly beautiful strangers, much the way Alfred is, still is, despite what he continues to distantly recall from the more intimate details of their experience together.

( _\--sharp, piercing white, blood, Alfred’s mouth everywhere, and his teeth nipping sharply against the shell of his ear, his teeth!)_

These strangers don’t quite look real to him. Alfred stands out among them, his unnatural handsomeness is unchallenged, and yet it seems impossible, he’s honestly _terrified_ by the jewels of their dark eyes spearing him with glances that feel terrible, horrible. As though sinking hooks into him that leave him faltering where he stands. He’s in a den of beasts, they could not be called anything else. He knows what they are. He knows what Alfred is, now.

They won’t stop staring, their voices now whisper between slivers of smoke from cigarettes, the splash of red liquid between their lips from crystalline glasses, drinking deeply and grinning. Curious. 

Alfred leaves him there, creating a distance that may as well be the other side of the world for how helpless it leaves him, and against his failing judgement he wants to fall after him, beg him not to leave him like this. 

The man’s smile has vanished, though he sounds no less amused at Arthur’s expense as he finally speaks. 

“Undress.” 

Arthur’s heart sinks. “... What?” 

Alfred doesn’t appear appreciative at having been asked to repeat himself. He gestures with a casual wave of his arm.

“ _Undress_. I won’t ask again.” 

Warm wetness pricks at his eyes. The other strangers, those conscious, have all suddenly gone quiet, with interest. Arthur must protest, he knows he must, and yet the velvet timbre of Alfred’s voice has emptied his mind of independent thought beyond knowing he has no choice. He feels compelled, as though his limbers were attached to strings, to do as was told. No one here will help him, none of them would want to. 

He cannot even think to stall as he reaches up, slow and hideously uncoordinated, fingers fumbling over buttons and loops and ties. He doesn’t remember putting these on, he’d only been in his nightshirt before arms had swept him up from behind and then after, having it ripped away and torn from his body-- 

\--Alfred must have dressed him after. After stealing him away, taking him to a place he’d never seen before, a great manor upon a hill, poisoning his already traitorous, lustful thoughts with touches and words as he reiterated his promise of decadence, promised Arthur he would learn and learn well, and indeed he did “teach” him for hours upon hours upon hours--

By the time he reaches his trousers, he is fully in tears, face aflame as he sniffles pathetically. Someone chuckles, he makes out a word or two: “how sweet”, someone says, mockingly. Mocking _him_ , and had this been the he from weeks ago, had Arthur been able to reach for the pride he’d so steadfastly believed oozed from his very pores, he might have lashed out. He finds he does not have the will. Not anymore.

Alfred watches him, unflinchingly, steps around him in a slow circle. Arthur continues. 

He drags his pants and underwear down his hips, hesitating where the tight fabric brushes over bruising puncture wounds, still fresh and bruised, and allowing the clothing to pool at his ankles. His knees knock together like a newborn fawn as a chill spreads fresh goosebumps skittering across his skin, and stands up straight with difficulty and his head bowed in misery. It’s far too warm suddenly. The candlelight passes over him, creates shadows across the floor. One moves close. 

“Good boy,” Alfred rumbles against his ear, and Arthur shudders, hands cupping over his privates. The man leans away from him again as others in the room seem to lean forward in their seats, and steps over to an elegant, polished table at the center of the room. It stands out for the fact that there is nothing upon it, it’s surface wide and gleaming with a thick singular base etched with intricate carvings in the painted wood. 

“Up here and on your knees,” Alfred orders, while reaching up to undo his black silk cravat, “you’ll need to move faster than that.” 

Arthur sniffles again, and obeys. It hurts to walk. It’s worse attempting to climb upon the table, just tall enough to make it impossible for him to cover himself or save any modesty whatsoever. Not with his naked arse up, pointed towards the circle of witnesses who shift in their seats. He feels ugly. The moment his knees are elevated, Alfred curls his fingers over one of his hips in a steel grip. 

“Open.” 

Arthur has no idea what he means, but Alfred’s fingers squeeze into his flesh, causing Arthur to bow his upper body without thinking. 

“Spread your legs,” Alfred clarifies, and the frantic pitter patter of Arthur’s heart increases as he does so, to the sound of the other strangers resuming their whispers. He spreads his knees as far as he can and clamps his eyes shut, but they spring open again as Alfred changes his grip, circling his hand between the nobleman’s legs to wrap around his half hard cock. A fleeting, but significant touch that has Arthur’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle a moan and lean harder on his forearms. The hand is gone soon after. 

Everyone’s staring. Everyone’s watching. Arthur can scarcely breathe, and he longs for it all to end, for Alfred to make his suffering cease and the cruel irony of he being Arthur’s savior is not lost upon him. As he finds the courage to dare raise his head, wondering where the man has gone, he looks right into the face of one of _them_ , a man with hair as black as night, in silky curls adorning the sides of his face and grinning, pleased to have met Arthur’s eye. 

Alfred touches him again and Arthur chokes on an exhale. Fingers part him, his rosy center now fully exposed to the air, and they dip against his entrance to stroke with none of the gentleness Arthur recalls. The pads of his fingers feel rougher and more insistent, thumbing over his hole repeatedly. Arthur’s fingers scramble against the surface of the table in weak fists and he pants, hips canting backward towards what he knows is Alfred, his solid form nearing, pressing against the back of him. His clothes feel cool against his heated skin. 

He twitches and Alfred gives a low whistle. 

“You should see how soft you are here, Arthur. Men aren’t supposed to get wet, and yet here you are,” Alfred speaks as if addressing the room, and there are chuckles here and there. He leans down, planting one hand to the side of him and his words skittering across Arthur’s spine, his thumb pushes, begins to pry him open, “or perhaps that’s still from earlier, hm? When I brought you to mine, prepared you for this moment. You remember, don’t you?”

 _No_ , Arthur’s mind screams. 

“My tongue in this pretty, _tight_ little ass.” 

He doesn’t want to remember it, but of course he does, the memory burns into his core now that Alfred has spoken of it, made it come to life vividly before him and everyone else in the room. Of course he remembers, after being ripped away from his own home, stolen away in the night, tied down to Alfred’s bed and drugged and pleasured and _bitten_ until he could not breathe, making good on the whispered promises that had plagued him every night since they had met. It all sears like the shape of Alfred’s clothed cock, just as insistent against one side, a growing presence Arthur finds impossible to ignore. 

“You liked it so much you _cried_ ,” Alfred’s thumb deliberately catches over his rim, now reddened and aching with feeling as Arthur’s lifts his head up with a soft squeal, “very sweet. I knew when I saw you, that you’d be so sweet.” 

The man punctuates his comment with a hot kiss to one cheek, and Arthur distinctly feels the hiss of teeth. Always teeth. There’s a hush of excitement from the audience. 

Without warning, Alfred’s hand moves, and Arthur’s head swims as he is grabbed. It feels like dozens of hands touching him, or perhaps it’s merely how delirious he feels with the voices surrounding him. Alfred’s the only one looking at him now as he is flipped onto his back, his head lolling against the table. 

_Cold_. _Hot_. 

Alfred’s smiling at him again, and taking both of Arthur’s legs in his hands, cupping beneath his knees, pushing him open. He feels pushed to the edge of the table, unable to move when he watches the man lean down, drifting closer, and Arthur’s toes curl in the air reflexively, shameful. Shameless, because he knows what pleasure there is, what the other man had given him. Cursed him to suffer for ever more. 

Alfred’s tongue curls over the wounds from before, punctures that ache and swell, in a wet hot streak, from the center of his thigh to the crease at the top, drawing the flesh between teeth that scratch and sting and make Arthur’s heart beat thoroughly out of his chest. It’s muscle memory perhaps that makes him twitch upwards, towards what he knows is pain but also the succulent, decadent afterglow from which even now he still recovers. It’s a feeling he mindlessly chases what with the source so close, and he can almost forget about the _others_ , about anyone else as Alfred’s heat engulfs him.

He gets his wish, and pearly fangs sink deftly into a spot just above the previous ones. 

( _It hurts. Arthur had screamed into wakefulness, only to fall shuddering back into the sheets as the obscene sound of the vampire’s throat working as he drank filled his ears--_ ) 

Just as before, Alfred drinks, but this time he stops short, too quickly for Arthur to register how or why until the heat has changed positions, and his other thigh throbs as he is bit, and Arthur half screams with glowing, painful pleasure. Again and again, short nips, long sucks, until it seems Arthur has gone numb. Sticky warmth flows in small rivulets along his flesh, his cock glistens, standing high as precum pools down the sides, and Alfred finally lifts his head again to swipe the blood from the corners of his lips. 

The smell of iron is thick on the air, air that feels as though it pulsates now with movement. The strangers are louder now, almost agitated, and closer. Arthur is weak, and hardly notices when a touch that is not Alfred’s closes over his wrist, nose pressed to his pulse point. But Alfred’s reaction is swift, and violent. Arthur watches his pupils change, so large as to swallow the crystal blues of eyes entirely, they appear completely pitch, dangerous and stomach churning. His bloodied fangs protrude freely as he hisses, and the room all but instantly falls to a terse silence. 

“ _Do not touch_ ,” he growls so low, his body shudders with it where Arthur can still feel him, and the hands upon him immediately release. Alfred snatches his freed wrist, holding it up to his face, and nips at him. He holds on until his eyes return to normal, and slowly he stares into Arthur instead, past the fogginess and the haze. His face smooths into one of carefully controlled calm again. Arthur cannot read him, and wonders at why he tries. Wonders at why he feels relief, after all that has happened, that Alfred would react with such possessiveness that it almost felt like--

\--like _more_.

Perhaps it’s because of how Alfred pulls him up, into a half sitting position, his bottom dragged to the edge of the table. His legs shake but Alfred is there to hold them, to ease them around his own hips as he pulls his silk shirt from his trousers and forcibly begins to tear them open with quick, rough jerks of his hand. 

Arthur doesn’t know what he expects next, everything still aches, every cell within him seems to leap, desperate, and his throat feels dry as he looks down, where Alfred shakes his cock from its confines and the long, thick shaft is just as hard as Arthur’s, and nowhere near as _average_. 

The nobleman’s throat jerks, bringing him fully to attention and into the present. 

Alfred wishes to--

No, he cannot. Can he? 

“No, please--” his voice sounds worn, drunken with a mixture of bliss and terror. 

“I’ve got you, I have you,” Alfred reassures, pulls him closer still with a hand cupping around his throat, brushing a thumb over Arthur’s trembling lips, cock heavy as it presses against him. 

_You’re mine now, Arthur Kirkland_ , the vampire had whispered to him in his dreams. Dreams now made reality. _You’ll be mine and mine alone._

Arthur shakes his head pleadingly. “N-No, it’s--”

It’s large, unfathomably so, Arthur cannot take that, he will tear, he will _bleed_ more and those piercing, unrelenting, _hungry_ gazes that swarm from around the room will never leave him, they’ll watch him split in two and then devour him whole. 

Alfred hushes him softly and Arthur cannot deny that the tears pooling in his eyes are not from pain alone as the head pushes against him, his center still soft, still wet, still _twitching_ for Alfred. He’s afraid, but Alfred’s pouring himself into him at the same time he draws near, kissing him soundly. He swallows the choked cries from Arthur’s throat with a thrust of his hips, and rocks into him until completely sheathed and Arthur is taut and frozen with fullness. 

“You’ve been such a good boy for me, Arthur,” Alfred responds in an utterly ravenous, affected voice, “you’ve taken all of me… You thought you couldn’t, but _look at you_. I knew you were made for me. I looked for centuries for someone like you, someone as fucking _perfect_ as you are.” 

Arthur can’t look, he’s breathless and quaking, winding his arms around Alfred’s neck for purchase despite having not been given permission. The man does not seem averse to it, however, he hums against the side of Arthur’s throat with a purr as he snaps his hips, jolting both Arthur and the table. Arthur can see from his wet lashes everyone’s still watching. Waiting. 

_Waiting._

_They were going to kill him. They were going to drink him dry, as soon as Alfred was finished with him. As soon as he had had his fill and chose to finish his humiliation in the very worst way possible, Arthur would die. He was going to--_

Arthur tightens around the girth within him, and sobs as Alfred’s hand slips into his hair, pulling his head back to nip along his jaw. 

“ _I have you_ ,” Alfred repeats, “look at me.” 

Tearfully Arthur turns his head, to stare death in the face, and sees that the man no longer seems impassive. The darkness lingers but his eyes are bright, just as his skin, golden and clear, is sheened with perspiration and his smile tipped at the corners. He licks at Arthur’s lips, holds him tight about the waist, and lifts him from the table. Arthur stares at him even as the world seems to fall out from under him, completely helpless and at the mercy of the strong arms that hold him seated on top of another man’s cock. 

“Look at me. Look only at me,” Alfred commands, and his grip changes, lifting Arthur bodily from his length, before pulling him back down. It knocks the wind from his lungs, and drives his head back, but even still, even still he clings, Alfred’s words lingering, having cast yet another spell. He looks, he looks _only_ at Alfred, and does not look away as the pain ebbs away in waves, replaced by a cresting desperation.

Faster, faster Alfred moves him, shapes him, clenches his fingers into his flesh hard enough to bruise, thrusts long and deep until Arthur feels the shape of him in his chest and in his bones as tears streak down his face. His throat feels raw, it aches as the rest of him does, and yet the pain unravels him as swiftly as it appears, giving way to an ecstasy that keeps him screaming long after he has no voice left. 

“Good boy, Arthur, just like that. You’re taking me so good... _Good boy_.” 

His vision goes white, blinding him as he climaxes. It splatters against his stomach and he crumples against Alfred’s chest, boneless as he continues fucking him with abandon. He cannot hear the man’s heartbeat, he has none. He feels heat and skin, hears the sound of his voice thundering from within with every grunt and salacious praise delivered from his lips like a twisted prayer. He does not feel real. And yet-- Arthur _melts_ , utterly spent, unravels in his grasp, as Alfred fills him to the brim and comes.


End file.
